


Spice Drawer

by stereokem



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Ball Gag, Conversation, Dinner Party, Inspired, M/M, Season 1, bdsm implications, flirtation, food preparation, implied BDSM, kitchen flirtation, longwhitecoats, the food is people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clue: Alana and Hannibal, in the kitchen, with a ball-gag, but it’s a secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spice Drawer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longwhitecoats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/gifts).



> Dedicated to longwhitecoats for the wonderful "Staccato" series (http://archiveofourown.org/series/46414). 
> 
> For those of you who are curious, I had to actually come up with a menu to write this scene. 
> 
> Menu:  
> Broth & Bread (to start)  
> Sweetbreads (appetizer)  
> Roasted Eggplant salad with Smoked Almonds & Goat Cheese  
> Venison tenderloin with blueberry-red wine reduction (entrée)  
> Apricot-glazed carrots with nutmeg and orange (side)  
> Aebleskiver topped with powdered sugar & Mulled wine (dessert)
> 
> -

   

* * *

 

 

            “Your kitchen was not made for short people.”

            The man standing across the room turned and gave his full attention to surveying her predicament. She felt his eyes briefly slick up her form, gaze lingering no longer than was strictly appropriate; but long enough to be _politely_ appreciative of her creamy legs, sharp black heels and the contours of her body as she stretched to reach a shelf high above her head.

            “I am afraid not,” said Hannibal, by way of apology. Stepping away from his cutting board, he wiped his hands carefully on his apron and moved around the granite island of his kitchen to stand next to her. The flare of his nostrils as he breathed in her scent was not lost on her—though how he could pick her out from the heady kitchen smells _was_ a mystery. 

            “Allow me.” With little effort, he raised his arm up past where her reach had fallen short, and plucked the brick-colored spice jar from the shelf. He handed it to her with a small, playful flourish of his wrist.

            Her mouth pursed slightly against her own smile. “Why, thank you, _monsieur_.”

            “ _Tout le plaisir était pour moi_ ,” was the rumbled reply, and Alana did roll her eyes at that, because of _course_ the little head-bow was necessary, and of _course_ his accent was near perfect.

             After he retreated back to his own workplace, the good doctor commented, “It truly is a pleasure, Alana. Friends do not often lend themselves to assist with preparations, and I do enjoy the company.”

            “And my passable dexterity,” she replied smartly, chopping up several carrots. While he swept around the kitchen preparing venison, sweet-breads, and aebleskivers, he had put her in charge of slicing scallions, dicing parsnips, and preparing a dish of apricot-glazed carrots. On the whole, it was very diplomatic of Hannibal: her assigned tasks were laborious enough to make her feel as though she were being useful, but simple enough so as not to put pressure on her skills as a chef— which were decent, but paled considerably in comparison to Hannibal’s prowess.

            “Personally, I feel privileged to assist – and see for myself what goes into your elaborately planned dinners.”

            Hannibal picked up his knife once more, the blade flashing beneath the kitchen lights. “Is that to satisfy curiosity or suspicion?” he inquired mildly.

            Smiling, Alana sipped from her beer glass. True to his word, Hannibal had kept the wine-barrel-aged brew in stock for her. “A bit of both?”

            The small chuckle that arose from Hannibal’s throat was punctuated by the steady sound of his knife hitting the cutting board. “And why have you become suspicious of me?”

            “I’ve _always_ been suspicious of you, Dr. Lecter.” 

            That earned her a flash of teeth and a mischievous smile. “Is that so?”

            She drank again and hummed her affirmation. It was a light-hearted jest, but she wasn’t being entirely unserious. Perhaps “suspicious” wasn’t quite the right word, but she could easily concede that she had always found Hannibal Lecter slightly curious. From his exotic accent, to his quiet manners, to the uncanny way he was able to guess almost exactly what another person was thinking, Hannibal was definitely something of an _objet d’art_.

            In fact, it was this uncanny knowledge that made her suspicious of Hannibal in the first place. He was enigmatic, aloof, at times so emotionally detached that he seemed almost inhuman . . . but when it came time to play doctor, confidant, or friend, he seemed to be eerily aware of everything racing through another’s mind and was able to produce in himself necessary complements. He knew precisely what to say, how to phrase it—he even monitored his intonation and delivery. His body language was no different; he tailored his movements and expressions to best suit the situation, to make the other party feel at ease and give them comfort in his authority, attentiveness, and unobtrusiveness. He was a mix of mild and firm, well-mannered and insightful.

            “I must confess some curiosity on _my_ part,” Hannibal’s mild voice wafted towards her, carried on the perfumes of slow-roasting meat. Over the top of her glass, she watched him transfer equal portions of the onion he had just diced into two sauté pans atop the stove. With an ease that belied considerable expertise, he seasoned and wined both, the liquid sizzling as it came in contact with the hot metal. “I find it peculiar that you came here without the company of your gentleman friend.”

            Setting down her glass, Alana refrained from rolling her eyes once again. Even when he was being nosy, Hannibal still managed to be genteel about it. “His name is Sean, Hannibal. You’ve met him before, and I know you remember every single detail of that encounter, including his name—and the fact that he isn’t really my ‘gentleman friend’.” She picked up the knife again and resumed chopping carrots.

            “A euphemism, I admit,” and he had to, because Hannibal was full of euphemisms, meant to benefit the delicate sensibilities of the world at large, “but he is not completely without charm. You seemed to portray that you enjoy each other’s company.”

            At this, Alana gave a small sigh, and began transferring the carrot slices into a bowl Hannibal had provided her. She did not particularly want to discuss Dr. Sean Westurby at the moment—or any moment with anyone. So far, she’d been successful in avoiding all conversation or inquiry—with the exception, now of Hannibal. ~~~~

Hannibal had met Sean once, and only once. It hadn't been a long verbal engagement, and was rather oddly domestic; Hannibal had happened to be out shopping (for what, Alana couldn’t remember) and had come across Alana and Sean as they were leaving a bed-and-breakfast, about to part ways into their separate lives. There had been some quaint introductions and some chit-chat about Sean’s practice; and Hannibal had been as polite as ever, though Alana didn’t miss the way his sharp red-caramel eyes took in everything, from the light band of skin on Sean’s finger to the cut, thread-count, and possible designer of his shirt. And, knowing Hannibal, he had also probably detected the faint aroma of hotel coffee and pre-breakfast sex.

 “Sean fulfills a very specific role in my life at present,” said Alana, choosing her words carefully, “and a formal dinner with my colleagues doesn’t really fit into that role. Besides, he was busy.”

            “I see,” Hannibal replied, stirring the contents of each pan in turn.    

            “You do,” she said simply, dragging an empty bowl towards her. “Butter?”

            With his knife, Hannibal pointed towards a covered dish on the counter, underneath which she found the promised butter, soft and melting where it sat. She added three pats of this, orange zest, apricot preserves, and nutmeg to the bowl and began stirring the ingredients together, creating a glaze.

“Well, the guest list tonight ensures that you shall not want for handsome people to engage with.”

            Alana laughed. “I’m certain. Will told me you even convinced _him_ to come along. How did you manage that?”

            At the mention of Will, something changed almost imperceptibly in Hannibal’s face. It was a subtle shift that most people would have glossed over—but Alana was looking for it.  

            She didn’t know exactly _what_ it was. She knew intrinsically, though, that Hannibal had always been a bit _funny_ about the scruffy FBI instructor. He had shown an interest in Will even before meeting him, and she was beginning to think that Hannibal had developed a soft spot for him.

            Though not so big a soft spot as to be easy on him, apparently. In the recent weeks, she had noticed (slightly via the observations of Jack) that Will and Hannibal had been spending more time together—which was probably directly correlate to the recent increase in the frequency of murders. Though neither man had said as much to her, Alana could see evidence that this was proving rather intense for the both of them. Will alternated frequently between stages of bilious exhaustion and energetic elation. And Hannibal . . . was quiet.

            Quiet, but changed. Though he did not express any direct behavior to suggest as much, Hannibal seemed to be growing more and more protective of Will. They way Hannibal looked at Will when he entered a room made her think of the way a patriot might look at his son going off to war: proud, affectionate, but with an undertone of dread.

            Her colleague, seeming to catch himself in mid-thought, straightened a bit, one hand turning to the contents of a skillet and stirring slowly.       

            “It was not easy,” he admitted. “Will is very reluctant in social settings.”

            “I noticed,” Alana interjected dryly, gently pouring the glaze over the bowl of carrots; she watched with satisfaction as the sweet juice oozed over the flat surfaces of the near-perfect slices.

            “And particularly uneasy of being around you—”

            That made Alana stop abruptly, putting the bowl down with a slight clink as the glass hit the granite counter-top harder than she had intended. “What?”

            “At least, that is how it seems to me,” Hannibal continued in that same mild tone that betrayed nothing except objectivity and serenity. “He mentioned that an incident had occurred between the two of you recently; it seems to be making him uncomfortable.”

            Alana narrowed her eyes. It was difficult to discern exactly how much Hannibal knew, or how much Will would have actually told him. On the one hand, Will rarely shared anything about himself that wasn’t strictly necessary (or pried from him via threat); on the other, Hannibal was very persuasive, and he and Will seemed to have become quite close as of late. They certainly spent enough time together; it was bound to come up during a session. And their reciprocating body languages communicated a strange sense of familiarity, as of two people sharing a secret. Who knew what they talked about in the sanctity of Hannibal’s study; probably things much more weighty than a misplaced display of affection.

            And if that was really all it was, she should have no problem talking about it.

            “There was. An incident, that is,” she clarified. “A few weeks ago, he called me over to his place; he said he caught sign of a wounded animal on his property and thought he might need help catching it. There was . . . we kissed. Briefly.”

            Hannibal continued minding the skillet thoughtfully. “And who put a stop to this kiss?”

            “I did.”

            Something tightened in his jaw momentarily, then relaxed, an emotion she would never know the name of diving back under smooth and untroubled muscle.

            “I see,” he murmured after a moment. “And no animal?”

            Alana shook her head. “No, none that I saw. But he really did seem to believe there was one.”

            “Will likes you, though,” Hannibal responded to her tacit dismissal. “He is obviously very fond of you.”

            Alana sighed in slight frustration. “It wasn’t a _premeditated_ act, Hannibal. I was less about me than it was him.”

            “Why do you say that?”

            She didn’t respond.

            “Alana?” Hannibal prodded gently, glancing up from the venison. “May I ask you how it made you feel?”

            “Are you asking as a psychiatrist or a friend?” she asked shrewdly.  
            “I am asking as Will’s unofficial psychiatrist and your friend.”

            She took a deep breath. “It felt like he was trying me on for size.”

            “You do not think his affection was genuine.”

            Her mind flashed back to the feeling of soft lips upon hers, scruff against her face, the smells of fear, dogs, and winter chill. “I think it was genuine. But it wasn’t meant for me.”

            That answer seemed to surprise Hannibal—just a little. “Oh? Who do you think it was meant for?”

            She picked up her glass, taking a sip and surveying him over the rim. “I think you’re in a better position to answer that than I am.”

            Hannibal cocked his head to one side and looked at her through slanted eyes. “Am I?”

            She mulled the beer around briefly on her tongue before swallowing and responding, “Well, yes. You have more conversations with him than I do—at least, more revealing conversations. Will barely tells me anything nowadays.”

            Hannibal paused, considering. He brought his own wine glass to his lips and drank. “Have you spoken to Will directly about the kiss?”

            “Just last week, actually. I was surprised – he was the one who brought it up. But, then again, Will rarely beats around the bush.”

            “Will is a bloodhound: he picks up a scent, and dashes forth before he loses it.”

            “As you say. He essentially conceded that it was a mistake” _Well—well, I just wanted to say that I may have, ah . . . **overreacted** —_ “and he apologized. Several times. His stress response seemed to me a bit atypical, though . . . Hannibal, does Will have a new romantic interest?”

            “What prompts that question?”

            “The way in which he apologized was . . . a bit off. He seemed contrite, but that contrition did not really seemed to be aimed at placating me . . . I got the feeling that he was trying to set things right, but less for me and more for someone else. Perhaps whoever the kiss was for,” she finished sheepishly.

            Something secretive slid its way into her colleague’s smile; his response was cryptic. “Perhaps,” he said, removing the sizzling meat from the stove; with one hand, he opened the oven and placed the venison-laden skillet inside with the other. He then turned back to the stove, where the sweetbreads were also almost finished cooking. “Will and I have been focusing so closely on the nature of his work and its psychological toll . . . it seems I have neglected to ask about more prosaic things.”

            At this she raised her eyebrow. “Prosaic?” she repeated. “Interesting choice of word.”

            “I meant in contrast to what Will faces in his work,” Hannibal amended. “He is so deeply immersed in the horrors he sees that romance and affection have become foreign concepts to him. They exist in another realm entirely, one he has difficulty accessing and appropriately handling.”

            “I see. And what about you, Dr. Lecter?”

            It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “Me? Is this an inquiry into my personal life, Dr. Bloom?”

            Having finished with the carrot dish, she untied her apron and set it on the countertop before slowly approaching him, beer in one hand. “Yes,” she said unapologetically. “It seems that I have to actively seek answers, seeing as you are not very fond of volunteering that kind of information. Another thing you and Will seem to have in common. So tell me, Hannibal,” she leaned against the wall just inside Hannibal’s peripheral view, very conscious of the position and line of her figure. “Are you entertaining any romantic interests?”

            He glanced at her, and she caught again the way his eyes swept over her briefly before turning back to the stove. “I am conducting relations with a person with whom I enjoy some of the benefits of a romantic relationship, yes.”

            Alana scoffed. “That is the most _convoluted_ answer to that question I’ve ever heard. But I can read between the lines.” She sipped from her glass, eyeing him knowingly. “You’re having another affair.”

            Hannibal murmured in his throat and turned off one of the flame burners, removing the still sizzling pancreas to one of the cooler back burners. He then turned to the sauté-pan to which he had added nothing yet but olive oil.

            “Of sorts,” he said finally. “I hesitate to simply call it an affair. It is arguably a bit more complicated than that.”

            Alana smiled as she watched him add a large handful of diced onion. “I find that interesting.”

            “That it is complicated?”

            “And that you seem to have only clandestine affairs. I don’t think I’ve ever met a single one of your . . .” she cast about for a word that didn’t sound crass and landed on  “. . . companions.”

            Hannibal shook his head. “I assure you that you have. You simply did not recognize them for who they were.”

            She frowned. “Why not introduce them?”

            “You mean the way you introduced me to Mr. Westurby?”

            Even posed with such an innocuous tone, the question stung. It was almost blunt enough to be considered rude—save for that Hannibal was never rude – not intentionally, at least. Even the incident with Abigail had come from a place of consideration and sympathy for the poor girl. This was hardly much different; there was, after all, a great disparity between being snide and calling her out on her bullshit.  

            Regardless, Alana frowned, and began to defend herself, saying, “That isn’t quite fair, Hannibal—”

            “I daresay that it is. Think about it, Alana: would you have introduced us voluntarily, if we had not had that chance meeting?”

            She continued to frown, not answering. Instead, she tried to reimagine that scenario. She tried to envision herself, arm in arm with Sean, introducing him to Hannibal, to Will. She forced herself to attempt to imagine bringing him to a work function, showing him off, making the rounds. And the more she contemplated it, the more she bristled at the thought.

            “Alana?”

            She swallowed and took a deep, defeated-sounding breath. “No. No, I suppose not.”

            “And why not?” Into the sauté pan went sprigs of thyme, and a minced clove of garlic.

            “Because Sean is nice . . . but his life has nothing to do with mine,” she admitted slowly. “And I don’t want either of us to be judged for our relationship, or the nature of it.”

            Hannibal nodded, head bowed as he minded the pan. “You do it to protect your respective lives,” he said. “To protect your privacy. I offer my own ‘companions’ the same courtesy. What we do with our time together is not necessarily for others to know.”

            “I see. Do you think that this is how Will feels?”

            She saw one of his eyebrows raise slightly. “You think Will is too carrying on with secret affairs?”

            Alana sighed in response, crossing her arms in what she knew Hannibal would read as uncomfortable frustration. “I think there is _something_ going on with him. I just can’t put my finger on what.”

            “You could, perhaps, ask him yourself,” Hannibal said mildly as he carefully continued to monitor the sweetbreads for doneness. “He has just arrived.”

            Just seconds after the words had left his mouth, Alana heard the unmistakable sound of the doorbell chime. She tilted her head slightly and gave Hannibal an inquisitive look.

            Hannibal inclined his head towards her, keeping his hands on the pan handle and spatula. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to answer that for me?” he said with all gentility. “I am afraid I cannot quite leave the stove at the moment.”

            Hannibal’s eyes seemed to follow her out the kitchen and all the way down the hall to the front door. As she approached, she could make out the sound of some timid, irregular knocking, as if the person on the other side was beginning to doubt they were in the right place or were actually welcome.

            And, of all the guests of Hannibal’s that she knew, there was only one person who would have such doubts.

            Surely enough, she found herself opening the door on none other than Will Graham.

            Or, rather, the back of Will Graham, as he appeared to have just turned away from the door and was about to set foot back out into the chilly night.

            “Will!”

            She had a hard time discerning whether she had actually exclaimed that loudly, or if the level of alarm in his reaction fell along the normal Will Graham spectrum. Either way, she couldn’t help but feel guilty about the way he jumped. He started so badly that he almost dropped the bottle of wine clutched in his left fist.

            “A—hi, Alana,” he said, smiling weakly and looking at her hairline.

            “Hello to you too,” she found herself beaming as she appraised him. “You look great.”

            He ducked his head at this, but she saw the embarrassed blush that crept upon him, now visible for the absence of his usual stubble. He had cleaned up considerably for this evening: not only was he clean-shaven, but it looked as though he had combed his ever-unruly mop of hair. Gone, too, was his daily garb, replaced instead with a clean black tux— a novelty on the normally disheveled instructor.

            “Well, look at you,” Alana grinned, stepping backwards and gesturing at the entryway with one arm. She surveyed him up and down appreciatively as he stepped over the threshold and shook himself slightly, like a dog. “I’ve never seen you in a tux before.”

            “Yeah, well, Han—Dr. Lecter said this was a suit-and-tie affair,” Will shrugged. In the light of the entryway, she could see that the suit, while elegant, was a bit loose on his slight figure. It hung around like one of his strays, sort of belonging but also out of place in some corners. Not tailor-made then. It was a very nonchalant suit, she decided, one that didn’t particularly care if it was going somewhere fancy or not. A suit that was not out to impress anyone, just to blend in and be unremarkable. Classic Will.

            Except for the tie. The tie was definitely out of place. It was so obviously not his taste that it looked almost foreign on his neck. Instead of the traditional black bowtie that accompanied a tux, the tie Will was sporting was a silk blue-grey necktie with hints of turquoise and green—almost the color of his eyes, which she was sure wasn’t a coincidence. Will was never that meticulous about his clothing. She was willing to bet money that it had been a gift from someone.

            Will thumbed the wine bottle cork, uneasy under the weight of Alana’s scrutiny.

            She lightly touched his arm in reassurance and nodding her head towards the kitchen. “Come on. Hannibal is still in the kitchen. You’re a bit early, and he hasn’t quite finished preparing yet.”

            “Yeah, I, uh, needed to talk to him, so I figured. .  . .”  
            Gently, before he could stammer himself into another mess, she guided him down the hallway and towards the kitchen. When they reached the doorway, both Alana and will were taken by the sight of their mutual friend standing in the middle of the kitchen at the L-shaped island, bent carefully over several dishes as if scrying in them.

            Instinctively, Alana stopped in the doorway. To her, watching Hannibal plate a dish was equally as bewitching as watching him cook it. It was a fleeting work of art confined to a small, ceramic canvas, to be enjoyed only momentarily—yet the meticulous verve with which he went about it was something of a marvel. The last thing she wanted to do was break his concentration.

            Will, evidently, did not pick up on that vibe. He walked straight past her, into the kitchen, and stood right in front of Hannibal. Will’s stance was uncharacteristically powerful, almost commanding; his hips were set forward and line of his back ramrod straight, presenting himself fully, as if demanding to be seen.

            Hannibal, for his part, did not so much as flick his eyes upwards. He simply went about his work, placing herbs and garnishes, adjusting shapes, drawing out the color scheme and overall mood of the dish. Only when he was satisfied did he finally lay his hands on the counter, straighten his elegant back, and lift his head to look Will straight in the eye.

            And—to Alana’s great surprise— Will looked right back.

            A small smile dancing onto Hannibal’s mouth and was gone in a blink. “Will.”

            “Dr. Lecter.”

            A beat of silence passed between them. If she didn’t know better, she might have been lead to believe that there was some kind of hostility electrifying the air between the two men. They simply stared at each other, Will with a kind of furious intensity, Hannibal with his customary masterful patience.

            It was Hannibal who spoke first, slow and deliberate:

            “You are early.”

            Maybe it was the reminder or maybe it was simply the sound of Hannibal’s voice, but Will instantly shrank. No longer was he an imposing, demanding presence – he reverted back to himself, his grim, apologetic awkwardness. He took a step backward and hung his head, breaking eye-contact.

            “I know, I’m sorry,” he sounded embarrassed. “I –”

            And then in stepped Hannibal, smooth and reassuring as ever. “No need to apologize. Please: have a seat.” He gestured at one of the bar stool near the island. “May I provide you with something to drink? There is wine—or you may have a beer, if Alana is willing to share her private stock.” He smiled in her direction.

            It was only then that Will seemed to remember that she was also in the room. He whirled around the look at her, eyes taking in fully the dress that he had before given only a cursory glance. He raked her figure thoroughly now. It was not a lascivious once-over, or even really a mildly appreciative one as Hannibal had given her earlier; it was critical and exacting, and she felt herself growing slightly self-conscious at the attention.

            Actually, it was much less like a once-over and more like she was being sized up.

            Will’s mossy, blue-grey eyes flitted from Alana to Hannibal, who had just stepped into the periphery—then landed on the half-drunken glass of beer, then back to Hannibal. She could practically hear the gears in his brain clicking, putting the situation together, reconstructing it like a crime scene.

            “Um . . . no,” he finally said, swallowing thickly. “ Did I . . . is there—? Perhaps I should come back—”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Alana found herself saying. She instantly regretted it, because the way Will snapped his head towards her made her think instantly of a rabbit sensing a predator. “Everyone else will be arriving in less than an hour—forty minutes, actually,” she looked at the digital clock on the oven.

            “Yes,” said Hannibal, stepping closer. He was wiping his hands slowly on a kitchen towel, looking between the two of them with interest. “Stay, make yourself comfortable. As soon as my other guests arrive, dinner will begin.

            A look of slight panic crossed Will’s face. “But— actually, Dr. Lecter—I was hoping I could talk to you before all the guests a-arrived.”

            Though he didn’t say “in private” Alana could definitely hear its implication ringing in the air.

            And so too did Hannibal. The psychiatrist nodded, and laid down the kitchen towel. “Of course.” He gestured towards the doorway of the kitchen opposite the one they had entered, a doorway that led deeper into the house. 

            As Will started gratefully towards the designated exit, Hannibal turned to Alana, and said in a somewhat apologetic tone, “We will be back momentarily. I hope you will not think me terribly rude for leaving you for a few minutes?”  
            She shook her head and forced a smile upon herself. “Not at all.”

            “Thank you,” he said humbly. “And I do not mean to ask too many favors, but if my other guests do happen to begin arriving while Will and I are preoccupied, would you mind welcoming them on my behalf?”

            “Certainly.” Most of the people Hannibal invited were their mutual acquaintances anyway, so playing hostess wouldn’t be too far a stretch. Though it might spark some gossip for _her_ to answer the door instead of the master of the house.

             Nodding and giving her a smile of gratitude, Hannibal plucked up his dinner jacket from where he had hung it on the back of a chair, and followed Will’s retreating steps out of the kitchen and down the dark hallway.

            Alana stood there, slightly perplexed. The entire interaction had left her more than a little dumbfounded, Will’s behavior in particular. What had all that been about? Will had seemed to her very edgy—not necessarily more so than usual, but in a different way. His normal state of apprehension was generally fueled by a looming but resigned sense of horror—one that made Will simultaneously nasty and meek. And she had seen that, briefly, intermittently. But the exchange between Will and Hannibal? That was born of an entirely different anxiety—maybe anxiety wasn’t even the right word for it. Tension was closer. Will had radiated nervous energy—but only when he’d stepped into the kitchen. The man she had met at the door was a far cry from the one who had strode into the kitchen. Only when he had been faced with Hannibal did the transformation occur.

            And Hannibal’s reaction was, if possible, even more confounding.

            It was so . . . _mild_. So unfretted. So calm. And almost— _almost_ —a bit coy.

            Which, on the whole, was nothing new. Hannibal had always been a bit coy—but usually not around Will. The FBI instructor usually evoked something more austere in Hannibal, more professional. But, then again, she had rarely seen them outside of case-settings. Perhaps this was how Hannibal normally behaved around Will. Perhaps this was normal for both of them.

            Alana listened for the sounds of their voices, for a snippet of conversation, footsteps, some indication of what was going on; but no sound presented itself. She was left, by herself in the kitchen, to wait and to wonder.

            “Just as well,” she muttered to herself. It was not her business, professionally or personally, to know what went on between her two colleagues.

            Resigning herself not to think about it further, Alana glanced at the digital clock on the oven. Hannibal had instructed everyone to arrive at 7 p.m., so there was a little more than twenty minutes before the other guests started arriving. Well, there were a few guests she suspected might arrive early— Dr. McGregor and his wife for one— but she still had a little time to kill. Should she clean? She surveyed the kitchen, looking for things to tidy up. Like any good chef, Hannibal cleaned as he cooked; he had left no mess behind. Even his apron, sitting on the counter where he had left it, was bright and clean.

            The same however, could not be said for her work space. While she had not made a mess, per se, there was definitely some tidying up that could be done.

            So, she went about collecting the bowls and knife she had utilized, washing them each carefully in the sink. She disposed of the unused vegetable bits, the carrot tops and scallion roots, and hung both of their aprons on the rack near the doorway. She took a wet washcloth and wiped down the counter where she had been, removing any traces of her labor. All that was left was to clear away was the jar of nutmeg.

            Alana plucked up the jar from the counter, and turned to the high cabinet where it had been stored earlier; she looked up at it doubtfully, turning the jar over in her hands and contemplating how to replace it. Was it absolutely necessary that it went on that particular shelf?

            Thinking, Alana turned to face the rest of the kitchen. There was a set of drawers and cabinets on the right side of the stove where Hannibal had been cooking the venison and sweetbreads earlier. She had seen him pull a jar of some spice from one of those drawers. At least if she placed it with other spices and herbs he would easily be able to find it again.

            Nodding to herself, Alana crossed the kitchen in a few quick steps, and opened the top drawer nearest to the stove. This drawer, unfortunately, was packed tightly with a wide assortment of powders, and she could not see making any room for the nutmeg. When she tried the second drawer, it yielded much the same. . .

When she opened the third drawer however, she was relieved to find that it was mostly empty. Its contents consisted only of a few neatly folded white towels-- and what looked like a strip of black leather poking out of the side of one of the towels.

            Curious, her brow crinkling slightly, Alana set the jar of nutmeg down into the cabinet, and picked up the first towel from the pile.

            And stared, slack-jawed.

            _A ball gag._

            It was simple, nothing more than a small red ball, classic and shiny, held between two strips of leather with buckle pieces at either end. As she leaned closer, she could see that the wear was not evenly distributed among the buckle holes. There were two that seemed to be favored, the leather around each beginning to snag ever so slightly.

            Alana continued to gape, her astonishment slowly sinking in. Her minded drifted back to earlier, the echoes of their conversation bounding around her skull. _What we do with our time together is not necessarily for others to know_.

            Was _this_ what Hannibal had meant?

            She reached out and touched one strip with her fingertips. It was definitely real leather, fine and expensive—and it unquestionably belonged to Hannibal.

            Did _he_ wear this? she wondered. She couldn’t say. She was entirely taken aback by this small, simple object. Other than a dead body, it was possibly the last thing she expected to find in Hannibal’s possession, much less in his kitchen. It didn’t seem like Hannibal at all. She knew little about Hannibal’s past, but what she did know was that he came from a different time and place; that he was cultured and genteel, and practiced in nearly all forms of etiquette and civility.

            But she also knew that he was highly eccentric; that he was curious about anything that defied contemporary western social norms; and that he had a strange, if benign, fascination with the macabre and deviant. She knew that—

 _Oh my god_. Those were _teeth_ marks.

            As she was about to get a closer look at the indented rubber (as if she thought she could recognize the bite pattern), a high, ringing sound bit abruptly through the stillness.

            Alana startled violently, jerking back so hard that her back and elbow hit the side of the island. Grimacing in pain, she struggled to hear over the obnoxious pounding in her ears as the sound reverberated again, loud and clear, like a grandfather clock. . . .

 _The doorbell_ , she realized. It was the doorbell.

            “Damn it,” she hissed, standing up from her crouch. As quickly as she could, she laid the white towel carefully back where it had been, once again covering all but a little strip of leather. Quietly, she closed the drawer, smoothed out her dress, and walked swiftly out of the kitchen, into the hallway, and went to answer the door.

 

* * *

 

            It was not long after Alana admitted Dr. McGregor and his wife that Hannibal (accompanied by Will) returned. And not long after that, the rest of the guests began arriving. Soon, Hannibal’s house was buzzing with activity. Men and women in formal evening attire milled around with wine glasses, chatting to each other. Hannibal, ever the good host, flitted among them, and then gently herded them into the dining room for dinner.

            Alana watched him throughout the evening, hardly sparing a moment to take her eyes off of him. She observed him speaking with his guests, scrutinizing his tone, his words, his body language. Trying to see, to decipher. Which one of them was it? _Was_ it one of them at all? She couldn’t tell. For all of her studying, she was at a loss. Hannibal treated everyone with the same cordial gentility, played no favorites, lingered upon no glances. She couldn’t tell. It was impossible.

            And perhaps if she hadn’t been so desperately concerned with Hannibal’s behavior, she might have noticed Will. Will, who was able (miraculously) to be no more awkward than was strictly acceptable. Will, who was seated strategically next to Dr. McGregor and waxed most of the evening in polite, dog and fishing-related conversation with the older man. Will, who managed to pass for almost-normal, who managed to laugh at one of Dr. Perry’s jokes. Will, who had returned from the back of Hannibal’s house with slightly ruffled clothing, who had obtained a certain kind of almost-stillness, an oscillating contentedness that had never been with him before. Will, who, for once instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, almost managed to blend into the background. Will, who was blatantly unaware of the small bruise that formed just above his collar as the evening wore on. Will, whose eyes followed Dr. Lecter with every chance he got.   

            But she didn’t notice.

            The only thing that shattered her intense study of Hannibal throughout the course of the dinner was a comment from Marisa Monticino as dishes were passed around.

            “These glazed carrots are _divine_ ,” said the older woman as she placed another few round slices on her fork. “Really, Hannibal, this is too much. Even the side dishes are exquisite.”

            And Hannibal, curling a lip, replied, “The credit for that dish is due to Dr. Bloom,” he inclined his head to Alana.

            Mrs. Monticino turned to smile and complement her, but Alana’s mind was elsewhere. Because, looking at the carrots posed at the end of the other woman’s fork, she had suddenly come to a horrific realization.

          The nutmeg.

             _She’d left the nutmeg in the drawer with the ball gag._

            Her gaze jerked towards Hannibal, who was looking at her with interest. She searched his face, but found nothing more than amusement there, the same sort of amusement that had been present throughout the dinner. It was both unsettling and relieving: to her, it meant there was a chance that he had not seen where she had placed the errant spice. Maybe she could make an excuse to slip away shortly and put it somewhere else—

            “Speaking of which, I would like to make a toast.” Pushing back his chair slightly, Hannibal rose to his feet. He raised his wine glass and looked to Alana.

            “To my esteemed colleague, Dr. Alana Bloom,” he said, “for reminding me that it is not always variety, but _curiosity_ , that is the spice of life.”

            She could have fooled herself until then, but there was no mistaking the wink that Hannibal directed at her as he tiled back his glass and swallowed.

            The only consolation she could find as she sat there with burning cheeks, was that she was the only one who saw, as everyone raised their glasses and drank at the same time.

            But, if she had been able to draw her attention away from Hannibal, she would have noticed:

            Will saw it too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back after reading the "Staccato" series, and stopped working on it because it was turning into such a lengthy scene. It sat on my jump drive for the longest time without being touched. I pulled it up again this week because life has been kind of rough, and writing has always been therapeutic for me. The more I look at this work, the more I realize how very characteristic it is of me. As a writer, composing scenes and constructing dialogue is where I spend most of my time. 
> 
> PS. I have edited this myself, so I might have missed a few errors. If you spot any, please feel free to message/comment.


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